


we're flying too close to the sun

by Laarim (Miraal)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Afterlife, Bloodshed, Dark, Dark Magic, Demons, Discrimination, Double Agents, Dubai, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sex, Family Conflict, Hypocrisy, Infidelity, Inner Demons, Inner Struggle, Morals, Multi, New York City, Personal Experience, Racism, Religions, Revenge, Values, Xenophobia, arabic phrases, cultures clashing, deeper meaning, djinn, don't read if you're close minded, eastern society, explicit violence, homphobia, honor killing, hyphenated zayn, inspired by Khaled Hossein's work, mafia wars, major character deaths, mental ilnesses, racist/homophobic slurs, sense of belonging, seriously, sinning, spirtuality, stigma - Freeform, vengeance, western society
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miraal/pseuds/Laarim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn is the only son of a powerful mafia boss. He is sent from his comfort zone in Dubai to New York to 'integrate' Niall Horan into his life. Zayn is confused, because Niall Horan just seems like your typical obnoxious, rich american; keyword - seems.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Zayn is gravitating toward that dark place with alarmingly fast rate; even though he tries to cling to what he used to be, he knows he’s slowly losing himself, indulging in everything his teacher back in Pakistan warned him about.</i></p><p> </p><p>an au in which Zayn seeks redemption for his countless sins, Niall struggle with his inner demons and Harry will do anything to uncover his murky past. (Liam is loyal - Louis is insane)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're flying too close to the sun

**Author's Note:**

> **warning; very different from anything I've written. Please, keep an open mind when you're reading this. This is the prologue and you'll see if it's something for you or not when you read it. If you don't like it, there are 1000 other places you could be. Don't flame any religion or belief. That's one thing I can't stand and I won't tolerate it. And yes, I once posted this under a different name before I decided to post it under my 'real' author name. If you aren't open-minded and willing to learn, then don't read it. I can't stress that enough. And I have a fairly good understanding, knowledge and experience of what I write. Don't make any assumption.**
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> Heavily inspired by Khaleid Hosseini's work. (Please, go read his work: if you're really interested in western vs eastern values. I love his novels to pieces). Also influenced by other bicultural author's work.

At the outskirt of Dubai City, the air is humid and dry, the desert sand is hot, like burning embers under the shoeless feet of the men, standing in line, their hands are tied behind their backs, the robes biting into their overheated skin, shirts clinging to their bodies, the sweat is running down their backs, nastily and uncomfortably. 

Zayn Malik leans against the hood of his expensive sports car, knowing everyone present at the moment is watching his every move, the air tight with apprehension and anxiousness, he brings a cigarette to his mouth and takes his sweet time, inhaling the smoke before letting it go, looking briefly up at the blaring sun through his shades.

He sighs irritably, doesn’t even notice the way one of the tied up men winces when he throws his half-finished cigarette to the ground, driving his heel into it, before looking up; he wouldn’t normally be doing this, but this had happened at _his_ quarter, he has to personally take care of it. He couldn’t have his father find out, that was the last thing he needed right now. He pinched the bridge of his nose and pushed himself away from his sports car.

As soon as his hand reaches behind him, one of the men begins to beg profusely for his life, promising diamonds and women and something else Zayn can’t make out through his gurgling once Zayn has buried a bullet in his chest, the man falls over in a useless heap; Zayn tches irritably. He points his gun to the remaining men, finishing them off with a bored expression, _Ashadu An La Ilaha Illallah_ couple of them shouts - Zayn smirks at the irony there - before the sharp bangs pierce through the air and they fall to the ground, bending like flimsy pieces of useless paper. 

“Clean it up, _haya al-aan_ ,” He orders the couple of men who’d been watching the scene with passive expressions, who immediately obey and Zayn puts away his gun, tugging a little on his jacket before climbing back into his car, fishing out a tissue from his pocket and drying off the sweat on his neck, he starts the engine and without another glance back, he drives off.

 

+

The _Maqrib_ prayer has finished and the dark has settled over the city like a blanket, streets illuminated by the colorful, artificial lights. Zayn slows down his reckless driving as he reaches the small park in the quieter, humbler parts of town and his eyes flitters over the men and women walking down the streets until his eyes lands on a tall, thin figure.

He pulls up at a corner, watches with amused eyes as the figure stays out of the street lights soft glow, speed-walking along the shadows and Zayn pushes a button that opens the passenger seat; a second later the person elegantly gets in and the door closes with a soft pop. 

“Salaam, ya Zayn,” A soft, feminine voice says.

“Salaam,” Zayn replies with a soft smile, pulling out and making a sharp u-turn that makes the woman gasp out a small prayer - it makes him chuckle lightly - before he pulls away and drives to somewhere more private.

-

Zayn descends the car once he reaches the high slope located a little outside Dubai, the city is glowing bright and vibrantly in the distance and Zayn takes a deep inhale of the warm night air, before walking around and opening the door for the woman.

He takes her slender, warm hand in his and helps her out of the car, she stumbles a little but Zayn steadies her with a hand on her hip. He looks her over briefly, she is wearing a black _abaya_ and a black scarf is wrapped around her head and held in place with a diamond pin. His eyes falls on her lips, full and painted with a red lipstick and he leans closer, kissing her softly on her lips; he bumps awkwardly against her sunglasses and her giggles flutters against his lips.

“Let me see you, _habibti_ ,” He says softly, speaking in perfect Arabic and gently pulls off her sunglasses; he’s glad the moon is out tonight, because her eyes glows such a perfect green with flecks of brown in them, especially when she’s outlined them with inky kohl. He carefully reaches for the pin, he pulls it out and watches the scarf unravel, her silky, dark hair falling around her face in waves. 

“ _Jamilah_ ,” He whispers, cupping her cheek. “Your parents hit spot on with that name, you’re beautiful.” She laughs lightly, reaching up and touching his hair delicately.

“We’re name-soulmates,” She says. “Since your name is _Zain_ , it must be _al-qadr_ , that we would be sinning like this together.” her eyes grow cloudy at her last words and Zayn is quick to kiss her before she begins to make promises they’ll watch themselves break within a few days.

“Don’t think, just _feel_ ,” Zayn says, pulling her closer into him and working his fingers through her hair, until he can twist his hand at the base, making her open her mouth easily for his tongue. They kiss until they have to part for breath and Zayn knows he’s properly wearing the lipstick by now, he looks at her and loves that she always looks so wrecked just from kissing. He begins working on her neck, soft butterfly kisses; very careful not to leave any visible marks.

“I shouldn’t be doing this, with you, knowing that it’s a sin,” She says, voice breathless. “I wish I could stop gravitating back to you; there’s a _hadith_ ,” she talks into his hair, her voice muffled a little but Zayn understands her, because it isn’t the first time he’s heard it. “- when a man and woman, who aren’t related are alone, they aren’t really alone, they have a third companion-“

“A _shaytaan_ ,” Zayn cuts her off - a _devil_ \- lifting his face and pecking her lips; he _knows_ , God, he _knows_. If Jamilah only knew that there are people on this earth that has done so much evil that they barely have any humanity left, that they’re so lost in their greed and lust for power, that they _become_ the devil himself; they become the cancer on this planet.

Zayn is gravitating toward that dark place with alarmingly fast rate; even though he tries to cling to what he used to be, he knows he’s slowly losing himself, indulging in everything his teacher back in Pakistan warned him about. ( _This world is poison, my boy, don’t lose yourself in what’s temporary and can never,_ ever _last_ ). Zayn is damned and he knows it. He might as well dwell it in. He also knows that he shouldn’t drag Jamilah down the path of damnation, she’s still so pure and innocent, she can still be saved - unlike Zayn - but she’s also what keeps Zayn from floating away like a cut kite and he’s so fond of her; she’s a lovely woman and Zayn is a selfish man. 

Zayn is absolutely surprised when he discovers Jamilah is wearing nothing under the _abaya_ \- nothing but some flimsy underwear - and he smirks, feeling the goose flesh on her skin when his hand slips through the opening in the front, touching her; he loves when a good girl is bad for him. He’s about to tell her that but his phone begins to vibrate in his pockets and Zayn lets out an annoyed huff, he hopes it’s important or there’ll be hell to pay. He pulls away from Jamilah, kissing her lightly on her cheek before reaching for his phone in his jeans, pulling it out and once his eyes fall on the screen, his breath catches slightly in his throat. He looks over at Jamilah, giving her an apologetic smile before moving a little away and bringing the phone up to his ear.

“Abbu,” Zayn says - _father_ \- licking his lips a little, his father is calling from his Dubai number, which means he’s in the city and Zayn hadn’t known he’d be coming in, last he knew, he’d been in the states, taking care of the main business over there; Zayn doesn’t like surprises, especially when it comes to his father, he likes to be prepared.

“Zayn,” his father’s familiar deep voice says from the small device and he sounds - Zayn’s relieved - pleased and calm; which can only mean he hasn’t heard about the small annoyance that occurred last night and that Zayn took care of a small few hours ago. So far, so good.

“Come for the Ishaa-prayer, boy, meet me in the big mosque,” His father says - _orders_ \- and Zayn quickly checks his watch, he has about half an hour till the adhan will call for prayer, which means he has plenty of time to clean up.

“I’ll meet you there, Abbu,” Zayn says, his father gives a quiet hum from the other side before hanging up and Zayn shoves the slim phone back into his jeans, when he turns around, Jamilah has wrapped the scarf around her head again, the sunglasses covering her eyes and she walks over with a small smile, touching his arm lightly.

“My father wants to see me,” Zayn says, slipping his hand into hers and fitting his fingers in the gaps of her hand, pulling her along. “I wish we could finish what we started. Shall I drop you off at the park or behind the Ishaar building?”

“Park,” she says, voice quiet, smiling softly.

 

+

 

Zayn is lucky to find a parking spot in the stuffed parking lot in front of the popular _Al-Huda_ mosque and as soon as Zayn kills the engine, the air resounds with the adhan as the muezzin calls for prayer; Zayn feels the usual chill he gets whenever he hears it, he feels like something inside of him is shaking, maybe, he thinks, it’s the remains of his purity; if there’s any left at all. Zayn sits back in his car and looks up at the mosque where it stands, tall and proudly; it’s gleaming white under the bright lights, its minarets towering high. He has always felt this energy come from it’s walls, this _light_ that sometimes succeeded in chasing the darkness in his soul away; he remembers what his _mualim_ \- his teacher - Rasheed Talaal would say ( _the mosque is a holy place, my boy, it’s Allah’s house, it’s guarded by him_ ).

Zayn sits through the first half of the adhaan, dutifully repeating every phrase after the muezzin, while his eyes flitters over the men and women and children making their way to the mosque to perform the last prayer of the day; his eyes lingers on an elderly lady, she’s walking with snail pace, her back nearly bend over in half, next to her is a young man, her son presumably, patiently walking next to her. (She’ll have to pray sitting, Zayn thinks idly, the bending and crouching would be too hard).

Once the first adhan is over, Zayn steps out of his car and runs a hand through his newly-washed, product-free hair and walks to the men’s entrance. He’s immediately met with kind, smiling faces who recognizes him immediately, they exchange greetings, _salaam aleikum_ and “aleikum salaam” - peace be upon you - Zayn knows they’d properly stop him up for a chat if it was another place, another time, and Zayn is eternally grateful that isn’t the case.

Zayn says a small _duaa_ \- the one his teacher taught him and Zayn feels proud at remembering it - before entering the mosque, he takes his shoes off and puts them where he’ll be able to find them later and follows the stream of men into the praying space.

The second adhan is called, it sounds louder inside, vibrating in Zayn’s eardrums and his eyes searches through the mass for his father, but he knows that he won’t be able to spot him before the prayer is over and the people begin to leave. So, he dutifully line up with the men, ending up next to a familiar face, one of his father’s close business associates, the man smiles at him, revealing slightly yellowing teeth and claps Zayn on the shoulder; “Good to see you here.” he mimes and before Zayn can reply, the prayer begins and they both turn forward, folding their hands over their chests.

 

+

 

Whenever Zayn finishes a prayer, he’s always filled with this sudden serenity and peace within his heart, a feeling that’s hard to explain, a feeling he doesn’t get anywhere else; it’s makes him feel like maybe, maybe he can find redemption for his countless sins.

(Allah is all forgiving my boy, never _ever_ forget that - his teacher would tell him and give those rare smiles where Zayn spotted his damaged teeth under his sunken upper lip).

His father is sitting in the far corner on a praying mat, legs bend underneath him and Zayn takes a deep breath, walking slowly over to him; he drops down next to him, folding his legs in front of him and staring straight-forward. Out of his peripheral vision, Zayn sees his father’s ringed finger run over the praying beads, distinctively hear his father chant the _dihkr_ under his breath - and Zayn idly wonders if his father feels the same struggle in his chest or if he’s doing all of this out of habit - and he patiently waits for him to finish.

“You’ve been doing good here, Zayn, good words have reached me about you,” His father says, pocketing his praying necklace. “I’m proud.” A smile tugs at Zayn’s lips, though he fights it down, keeping a stoic expression.

“Thank you, father,” Zayn says, he waits for the real reason his father has called him here, it sure hasn’t anything to do with idle talk.

“I have a task for you, of great importance,” even though his words, Yasir Malik talks with a light voice like they’re chatting about the weather. Zayn sits up a little straighter, interest perked and he glances side-ways at his father, waiting for him to continue.

“Let’s take this outside, shall we?” Yasir gets to his feet and as Zayn stands up as well, he can’t help but notice the authority and power pouring off his father in waves, sometimes - _most times_ \- it makes Zayn feel on edge.

 

+

 

Zayn and Yasir are settled in the latter’s limo, Yasir has just offered Zayn a date and he respectfully takes on and puts it in his mouth; it is rather sweet, must be from Saudi Arabia. His father puts one in his mouth himself, before closing the small box and slipping it in his pocket, then he pushes a button and extracts a folder from a small drawer built into the vehicle.

He hands it to Zayn, and Zayn takes it, brow furrowing in confusion. He flips it open, flipping through it until it land on a small picture of a young boy.

“What am I looking at here, father?” He asks, looking up at his father. He wonders if it’s an assassination task, but his father wouldn’t go through the trouble of briefing him, himself; no, this is something different and Zayn doesn’t like it.

Yasir looks at him then, their eyes meet for the first time that night and as Yasir’s hard, onyx eyes pierce into Zayn’s, Zayn lowers his gaze out of respect.

“It has reached me that they, _the Black Snake_ , are interested in him, therefore, we are interested in him as well,” his father says and Zayn feels himself sit straighter at the mentioning of their archenemies; the gang that controls the whole western coast of the United States, the gang who comes from old blood and old money, operating in the shadows. Zayn’s fingers tighten around the folder, crumbling it a little and he feels the familiar anger pulsing in his veins. He takes a deep breath to calm himself and glances down at the boy again; blond tousled hair and blue eyes, typical American.

“Who is this boy?” Zayn asks, looking up at Yasir.

“That’s what I need you to find out,” Yasir says. “Don’t let him fall into the Snake’s nest, if he really is important to them as several sources has stated, then we need to get to him first.”

“I’m not sure I’m following, father, this is not my area, I already have my hands full here in Dubai-“

“Sadeq will take over the operations here, I need you in New York, Zayn,” His father cuts him off in a voice that leaves no room for objections.

New York.

Zayn hasn’t been in the states for a couple of years now and quite frankly, he’d been quite content with what he’d built up here by himself and minimal guidance from his father, besides, Jamilah is here, he doesn’t think he wants to leave her; however, he knows that he’s bad for her, as bad as bad gets, and it’s best if he lets her out of his clutches. 

“ …yes, Abbu,” Zayn says, though he still a bit perplexed; what is exactly is he supposed to do here? “Do I kidnap him?” 

“No,” Yasir says. “Integrate yourself in his life, gain his trust, protect him, you know the procedure, find out everything you can about him; assess whether he’ll be useful to us. There will, most probably, be other mafias who’ll be interested, you’ll have to be ready for that; no matter what happens, don’t let them get him.”

Zayn nods slowly, closing the folder.

“… When should I leave?”

Yasir hands him some papers and when Zayn inspects them, he discovers they are tickets.

“Your flight leaves in an hour,” Yasir says and extracts a big cigar from his chest pocket, putting it in his mouth which signals the end of their little meeting, he pushes a button that opens the door and catches Zayn’s gaze. “I don’t accept failure, don’t disappoint me.”

“Never, Abbu,” Zayn says quietly before nodding to his father, receiving a curt nod in return and he descends the car. He watches his father’s limo pull out of it’s spot and disappear down the street. He looks back down at the folder and opens it, his eyes falling on the name.

“Niall Horan,” he says, before adding in lightly accented English; “Nice to meet you, I’m Zayn.” 

**Author's Note:**

>  _"Zayn wonders what he should be looking for, all he sees is an ordinary kid in a school uniform, though, looks are deceiving, Zayn would know."_ Excerpt from chapter one


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